


Dinner with the Ministry

by seasalticecream32



Series: HP Musings [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Ministry of Magic, Pre-Canon, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8236669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasalticecream32/pseuds/seasalticecream32
Summary: Nobby Leach was the first Muggle born Minister, who became mysteriously ill. This is that story.





	

Nobby Leach straightened his white bow-tie and turned to his husband. They were both impeccable opposites in shows of elegance. Nobby wore a back suit with a single white button and a black undershirt. With the many braids of his hair tied back and his liquid smoke eyes narrowed, he was a negative space in a vibrant room.

If he was a negative space then his husband was an explosion of color. Thick robes in cherry red and emerald green layered together, clasped in frog buttons down the front. A frilled hat sat atop his beaded twists. Damocles was the picture of Christmastime Cordiality. Nobby took two steps forward and grabbed Damocles’s cheeks, pressing a kiss against Damocles’s wide smile, catching all teeth. He laughed and stood on his tiptoes to kiss the tip of Damocles’s nose. 

He supposed that, being impossibly short, it only made the most sense that he would find someone impossibly tall to fall in love with.

“Hey, you great big Nob, you’ll smear my make up.” But Damocles was still grinning, and when Nobby went to pull away, Damocles yanked him back and kissed him again. “Ah, it was all natural anyway.”

“I did like the touch of pink at the center.” Nobby laced his fingers in Damocles’s and squeezed. They kissed once more and then Nobby straightened his posture and stepped out.

Damocles smiled brilliantly, lighting the world with the cheer on his face. But Nobby schooled his expression into sternness. Any show of weakness in his shoulders was covered by the severe cut of his jacket and the sharp angle of his jaw. 

They turned the corner and faced their adversaries. An entire room of peacock-colored robes and hastily covered sneers. They all wore their pointed hats. The sight made Nobby sick to his stomach, but he only grit his teeth discreetly and stood at the head of the table. 

Damocles continued onto the other end of he table. 

Flutes of champagne sat around the table, courtesy of a Mr. Slughorn. 

Nobby picked up his flute, keeping his touch gentle even as he narrowed his eyes around the room. 

“I am here to celebrate my fourth year as Minister. Despite the heavy opposition in my first year,” he looked around the room, his gaze lingering on a the faces of the few pure-blood enthusiast who had stubbornly remained in the ministry despite his successful run. “I have managed four years that I am proud of. We’ve come a long way. We should all be proud.” 

He watched the others lift their glasses. Waited until they’d all taken their polite sips. He winked at Damocles while everyone busied themselves a their spots. Damocles’s grin made the looming dinner almost seem bearable.

The first course was served by the house elves. It was a brutish practice that Nobby intended to tackle next. He’d just proposed a bill to allow Werewolves equal employment rights, so long as they disclosed their condition and took the proper precautions. He’d increased funding for a lycanthropy cure from zero to at least a fistful of galleons a month. It was almost nothing, but not quite, and he’d learned early in life that if he could fight his way in, he could win.

A fancy looking plate of wedged lettuce and tomatoes sat in front of him, a dollop of cream it’s only adornment. He gave a thin lipped smile and lifted his fork. The pure-bloods were always doing this, supposedly in a show of kindness. They wanted to serve him foods he was used to– a condescending. notion at best. 

His family had never survived on spam fritters and Heinz cream salads. He had learned how to make rich meat pies, tender beef cut into chunks and simmered in red wine, from his mother. The rich pure-blood wizards refused to care about his origins. They had prescribed a narrative to him and they would not be dissuaded of their orphan muggle child who’d risen to power.

He choked down a few bites, hiding his mouth behind his napkin and spitting what he could of the cream sauce out. 

Forks clinked against plates. No one else enjoyed the pre-entree salad. They tortured themselves as well as him with this pig-slop mess.

“So, have you heard of the Malfoys? They’re rising up the ranks in the Ministry. A strong family, that one is. The Lucius boy shows promise.” A snub nosed woman smiled politely at him as she pushed her plate away.

Nobby coughed and set his napkin down. He hated the words strong and family, put together that way and in that order. It nearly always stood for pure-blood. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t think of any moment when it did not refer to the pure-blood and other groups that very distinctively excluded him. “Yes, well, we’ll have to see what come of them in the future.” 

He coughed again and waited for the next course. The only upside to the deplorable menu his guests insisted on was that meals with the other heads of the Ministry tended to go quickly. 

“So, what is it about the Werewolf cause that speaks to you? We see you’ve taken a special care for it.”

Nobby only just resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Independent studies have shown that most,” he took a second to clear his throat. “Most people affected by Lycanthropy are attacked when they–” he coughed again.

He picked up his water glass and took a long, cooling drink. It didn’t soothe the itch at his throat. “When they are at home They’re attacked on accident. If we…” 

He frowned, furrowed his brows. Something wasn’t right. His breathing lagged, a close two beats behind when it should be. He looked to Damocles, to Damocles’s fist clenched at his side. Nobby knew then what had happened. Damocles’’s eyes were wide, but the man beside him was holding tight to Damocles’s arm.

“So which one did it?” He stood and the world swayed. He swallowed a cough. “And why? We were–” he coughed again. It was too powerful to suppress this time, like his lungs were shrinking into themselves. “We were making progress.” 

He swayed. Damocles’s wand flew into his hand. Nobby hadn’t seen how he’d wrestled it free. 

There was a flash of white light as Nobby began to fall. He was gasping by the time Damocles made his way to his side. None of the others had even moved to stop him. That, more than anything, struck fear into Nobby’s heart.

They had a new Minister of Magic in the time it took Nobby to get to St Mungos. 

Nobby spent two weeks in the hospital. According to all the Papers, there was no chance he’d make it and even less chance he’d be fit to serve again.

Damocles’s smile fell away in those two weeks. The more they found out about what happened, the more Damocles’s expression turned from shifting water to stone. If not for one nurse, a muggle born healer, they would have not known the truth of what happened at all.

A rare poison, mixed into the dollop of cream served to Nobby, had caused irreparable damage. He would spend the rest of his life treating the symptoms.

Shaking, breathlessness, fatigue. 

The other nurses swore he’d only had an allergic reaction. When their nurse returned, she had tears in her eyes and empty hands. His bloodwork had disappeared. 

It took the first full moon for him to realize the true extent of their cruelty.

It was several years later that Damocles, working with a nobody nurse fired from St. Mungos, made the first Wolfsbane potion.


End file.
